


Taken by Fire

by ladyofpyke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofpyke/pseuds/ladyofpyke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(post-ADWD) At the Wall, Theon awaits his execution. The priestess Melisandre wants to sacrifice him to resurrect Jon. Hoping to redeem himself just a little bit, Theon agrees – but R’hllor has different plans with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taken by Fire

**Author's Note:**

> There is some character death at the beginning, but this is a fix-it-fic , so everything will be well in the end :3  
> This part can be read as a standalone ficlet – I’m not sure yet, whether I want to leave it that way or write a continuation ^^;

Theon cuddled in one corner of his cell. Beneath the wall it was always called. Even wrapped in a dozen blankets he was still freezing. But tomorrow he would die. So what did it matter?

He threw a glance at the opposite cell. The dead body, so familiar it stung with distant pain. He had never cared for Jon. Still, when he was honest to himself that boy had been closer family to him than most of his blood. Distant people, who hadn’t cared, whether he was dead or alive.

All, but Asha…

She had started to care too late and then too much. He didn’t want to think of the trails of her blood, plastered over the snow of Winterfell.

She had died with her ax in her hand, smeared in Ramsay’s blood. She had grinned at Theon, accomplished that she had reaped this monster from this world. And the smile didn’t leave her lips, even after her body had gone cold.

Stannis’ man had pulled him away from her and brought him to the wall. Where he should meet again with the King’s justice, once he had returned from the battlefield, where he was facing the remains of Bolton’s  army.

Theon had feared seeing Jon again, he had feared that Jeyne might have been exposed. Jon was a good man, but he had his father’s sense of honor. Honor, that was more important than life.

So much bigger was his shock, when he learned not only of Jon’s death, but of the circumstances. That he had been stabbed in the back by his own man, quite literally. That it was they who  whispered about Jon, that he was the turncoat, the man who had run with the wildlings.

It was weird, but learning bit by bit of Jon’s struggles, his betrayals, he had started to feel closer to Jon than ever before. He could understand him and his decisions, his bad, bad decisions so well.

But that couldn’t change that Jon was dead.

Then the red witch had said, she could. If Theon was willing to help. “King’s blood.”, she had whispered and touched his cheek. Her fingertips were so warm and soft. “It is strong, potent, powerful. And you lived so long, suffered through so much – how could your death now be in vain? Let me sacrifice your blood to R’hllor, the Lord of Light. Then, I might be able to bring Jon Snow back to life.”

He had heard the _might_ , in her face he had seen that a part of her was lying, not only to him, but also to herself. But he had agreed – if there was the tiniest chance that his death could bring something good. If it could redeem him, just a little bit, then he was willing to try.

And how much worse than a flaying knife could fire possibly be?

+++

There was no pain in the fire. There was more pain in his heart, looking at Jeyne, crying. The men probably thought she was mourning her bastard brother, whose pyre Theon was chained to.

But he knew better and the thought alone hurt more than every knife ever had – she cried because she didn’t want to lose him. He, who was worth nothing, who could have never been a true man for her. And in time she would find another. Someone who could truly make her happy and whole again.

But right now she wasn’t and more than the flames, it was her look, so sad and full of fear and pain, that made him want to scream in agony.

So he nodded her a last good-bye, smiled a smile as broad and happy as he could. And then he closed his eyes, unable to watch her anymore.

He heard nothing but the cackling of fire, flames licked over his skin, but it didn’t burn. It felt more like a caring gesture, like kisses, fluttering over his skin like butterfly wings. How long he would have to burn, until he would die? An eternity passed, he opened his eyes, seeing nothing but fire.

He looked down at his hands – and gasped. Ten fingers, strong and long. He looked down. Bewildered his gaze wandered over naked skin, flawless and rosy. He wiggled his toes. With his tongue he trailed over his teeth. And he laughed and cried. This might be hell and he might burn forever, but he was himself, truly himself again. And no one could take this away from him.

A cold breeze touched his cheek and the flames vanished. He was in the dark and a shiver ran over his skin.

“Don’t worry.” A woman’s voice. She reminded him of his sister. Strong and yet soft, when she wanted to be.

He turned around, but couldn’t tell, where she might be hiding. He blinked a few times, searched for the tiniest source of light in the pitch black darkness. But there was nothing. Was this the real hell? Would his punishment begin now?

“Don’t be afraid. You were punished more than enough for the sins of a whole lifetime. This is not hell. But neither is it heaven. Not yet.” The voice seemed closer now. “My priestess  Melisandre honored me with the sacrifice of your blood. Unaware of its true worth. Far more you could do than saving the life of a single man.”

“But…” His voice cracked. “I _can_ save him?”

“Oh yes, him and every life lost in the war. If you choose to do so.”

Robb’s face flashed before his eyes. The smiling face of an innocent boy, who had never fought with a real sword. Not the King with sorrow in his eyes and blood on his hands. He saw every man and every woman at Winterfell. Kyra, blushing and looking away like a shy maid. The miller’s wife, her soft body pressing against his. The young boys, peeking at him sheepishly, whenever he left. Old Nan, the Septa, Maester Luwin, Mikken, Sir Rodrik, , Jory – too many faces to count them all. Lord and Lady Stark. Bran, Rickon, Arya and Sansa. Jeyne smiling like the innocent girl she once was.

His sister, taking her last breaths beneath the godswood.

“Whatever price I have to pay – I will pay it.”

He still couldn’t  see the woman, but he was sure, she was smiling. “Just listen, learn and change. This time make the right decisions. And the future will be yours to forge.”

He felt like the wind was tearing at him, gushing cold water into his face. Fresh images appeared before his eyes, so many memories, that wasn’t his own. He felt like he was swirled around, tossed about by the ever-changing wind. Until, with a thug, he was back in the fire.

No, not inside the fire. This fire was smaller, hardly strong enough to lick the black stone of the fireplace.

In his left hand he held a mug of mulled wine, he could smell the spices, the strong alcohol.

The little flames were still dancing in front of him – it was, as if they had told him a long, long story.

And when Robb put his arms around Theon’s shoulders, laughed and mocked him for staring into the flames like some old, mad seer, he laughed back. He gave him a hug, perhaps a bit too long, and thanked the one god that she had woken him from this horrible nightmare.


End file.
